Melody's Open Invite Gangbang Ch. 12

Now come days of worthlessness. Days of shame.

The complete confrontation with the reality of her exposure online shook her to her core. Before, when she'd first moved to Boston, she had been able to delude herself. It was life-ruining footage, already, but it would fade into the depths of the internet, and with a move across the country and a false identity, she would be able to eventually escape it for the most part. That is what she had thought. The virtual tour she was given in the hotel suite, nine months ago now, had shattered that delusion.

Her footage, her story, had caught into some internet zeitgeist. It was not going to go away. She had thousands of dedicated, some borderline obsessive, fans. They all were communally dedicated to virtual (and real-life) stalking of her. She would never be able to hide from them. They would duplicate and spread her footage, and endlessly seek to create more content of her. They wouldn't let her move again and change her identity. She couldn't go to the cops. They obviously didn't take her side one bit. She realized, only just now in her post-jail freedom, that she was completely and utterly fucked.

She sat on her bunk one morning in a women's shelter she had gone to while she considered what she could do or where she could go next. She wanted to be somewhere with no men. She hadn't gone outside in three days. She sat and stared up at the high window. She was utterly baffled with what she should do next. She seemed to have been pushed into an impossible corner. She had no money, no possessions. Her reputation was utterly ruined, socially and professionally. What could she even begin to do with herself? No matter where she went, it seemed like a dead end. Should she just kill herself? She knew she wouldn't, but she could think of no logical reason not to. She was finally accepting what her assailants had told her so many times -- that she had nothing to live for now except cock.

A disheveled woman with sunken eyes was sitting on the bed next to hers. She had a magazine of some kind in her hands. They had talked a couple times in the last few days, just a word here and there. Now she kept glancing from the magazine to Melody and back again.

"This your skanky ass?" she asked, and handed it to her.

It was called "Jailbirds," one of those garbage rags they sell for 75 cents at gas station checkouts. It was just a collection of recent mugshots in the county. The top of the page it was turned to was labeled "Prostitution." There, along with 20 old hardened hags and methed out homeless looking women, was Melody, clear as day, standing out so much with her youthful beauty, despite the wild hair and dried clumps of cum. "FREE BLOWJOBS" right across her forehead. "Melody Ann Ainsley, 26. Multiple counts of prostitution, drug possession, public indecency."

She didn't even have a response for the woman. She just stood up, threw the magazine on the bed, and walked out, as the woman watched her leave in shock and disgust.

She wandered the streets for two hours, worried all the while that someone would recognize her. If they did, they didn't say anything. Would this be how it would be every day for the rest of her life? How could she operate like this?

No money. No possessions. No phone. Nothing except the donated clothes on her back.

She hitched her way to a rest stop off I-95. From there she met a trucker, an older, rugged female, who agreed to let her ride as far west as she was going. Melody rode in the cab, glad she had found a woman. She spoke very little, and luckily the woman didn't press. She had no plans. She just knew she had to leave Boston.

The woman drove her west as far as Detroit. From there, she told her she'd be heading north into Canada. Couldn't tag along if she couldn't provide the documents to cross the border.

She hitched again further west, and then again, going wherever she could find someone willing to take her. It was mostly men who drove her, but luckily no one recognized her or sought sexual favors. For a moment she let herself once again begin second guessing the extent of her exposure. She had assumed people would recognize her everywhere she went. Maybe, just maybe, if she stayed off the grid she could get by like a normal person?

She quickly squashed the idea. She knew she was going down the same path of mental self-delusion as last time. It would only lead to a harsher reality check. She was a known, publicized, ubiquitous webslut. And real life slut. She just had to find a way to accept it. To live within that framework.

To reinforce the idea, she went into a public library when she was in Denver. She signed up for a library card, rather easy even with no ID, and then got a private booth to use the Internet. There were no restrictions on the browser. She typed in her name.

Page after page after page. All her. Just dozens and dozens of videos, hundreds or pictures, endless pages dumping all of her personal info, her history, everything. She found the page that documented every single square inch of her body in extreme HD, and couldn't bear to click on any of the images. Just the search "Melody" still had her on the first page.

Her heart was racing, despite herself. She already knew all this was there. Why did it elicit such a panic response to see it? She clicked on the fan forums dedicated to her. The board was very active. Guys posted every day. They loved digging up old pictures of her, old videos, and splicing them next to the most explicit content of her that they could find. The innocent vs ruined dichotomy.

They loved how she was reluctant now. They perceived her initial supposed consent to the gangrape in her apartment to be a one time mistake, a disastrous slip up that had spiraled far out of her control, that she didn't know how far it would go, and that she wished she could take it back. They loved that she was a punished whore, forced to keep living with the consequences of past fucks ups. Her reluctance was exactly what made it hot to them. She could tell they were all closeted sadists, cowards who had finally found a victim who couldn't fight back, who they could take out all their sexual frustrations and aggressions on without any consequences to themselves. The kind of thing they would probably love to do to all kinds of women they knew in their personal lives, but would never be able to. That's why she had developed such a dedicated fanbase online. She attracted every type of guy like that out there. She was the only person they would ever get the opportunity to take it all out on.

That's why they loved to dig up pictures from her old life so much, and hear old stories from people who knew her. They didn't just want a wanton slut. There were thousands of pornstars out there who were willing to be that. They wanted a good girl who had been reluctantly morphed into a wanton slut. The old pictures, blog posts, contrasted with what became of her, reminded them that she was a real person, a shy, reserved, private person who had somehow, against all odds, been pushed to the absolute extremes of human exposure. Levels that weren't even possible 30 years ago, before the advent o f the internet. Unparalleled in human history. Her obvious horror and tortured arousal over the situation was precisely what fueled them. This pussy, this asshole, all of these parts you could see in incredible HD quality, preserved for all time on a hundred different websites and growing, were never supposed to be seen by more than a small handful of lovers. Now their spread could never be stopped.

This was also why they loved so obsessively keeping track of her "number." It was a quantitative evaluation of how ruined she was. They loved the idea of adding on to this number, on and on, indefinitely.

A thread on the forums was titled "Take a picture of your dick next to one of Melody's selfies if it's ever been inside her!" The thread had been up for three months. There were hundreds of posts. She made herself click it and scrolled through. Picture after picture, all posted by guys with crowns and numbers next to their screennames, indicating they'd presented proof of having fucked her. Picture after picture of cocks posed right over or next to a selfie of Melody they'd taken from her Facebook or elsewhere at some time, her smiling face oblivious next to the bulging dicks. Dicks of every size, shape, and color. Some straight, some curved, some small, some huge. Cut, uncut. Clean, disgusting. Some had scabs or flakes of dried skin circling the ring of the head. All had been inside of her. She knew it was true, but it was difficult to wrap her head around. She felt her face flushing hot and red with shame as she scrolled down this long, long chronicle of her degradation. The cumulative effect was overwhelming. She felt so disgusting, so ruined. That this was out there for anyone to peruse at their leisure...her heart was racing. Seeing so many variations of cocks all at once, disembodied, it all seemed so crass, like alien invaders that had been forced into her. Yeah she looks pretty in these pictures, but look at all these cocks she's taken. This large sampling of humanity, who have all rubbed themselves to a gushing climax against her wet, pink walls. A single human female had never been intended to be used by this many men. It was a perversion of biology and nature.

She found another women's shelter in Denver and stayed there while trying to decide what to do next. What options could be available to someone like her? Had anyone even been in such a position before? Should she move to California and become a pornstar? Is that all that was left to her? But no, what studio would pay her when the worst content imaginable of her was already out there, with an unending potential for more to be created?

She stayed at the women's shelter in the evenings and at night, and in the day wandered the streets of Denver, wondering what to do with herself, always scared that someone would recognize her and call her out on the street. She found herself going to the library more and more, always taking a private computer room and looking herself up online. She couldn't help it. She would trawl through page after page, seeing the videos, the pictures, seeing the things people said about her, her face flushing red and her heart racing in panic and involuntary excitement. She hated it, hated every person who commented or reposted images or videos of her. And yet, it was all she could do to stop herself from masturbating in the library. Every time she would leave with panties full of girl cum and a conviction, more than ever, that her life was completely fucked.

She knew she needed money, before anything else. She had no drive, no real goal, but she knew she had to have money. She could stay at the women's shelter a while longer, if she had to, but that was not a permanent solution, and she hated it there.

She decided the best way to get money, quickly, would be by taking advantage of one of her fans, who she figured would act more deferential and attempt to charm her in a one-on-one discussion. She wanted to find one who lived overseas, who couldn't easily demand for her to come to him, and who was well off enough to give her money, but not in a life situation where he could just pay to fly her to him. That meant someone with a wife.

She made an account on her own fan forums, but posing as a regular person. A male. She participated in discussions, here and there -- mostly in the off topic boards, where she didn't have to participate in degrading conversations about herself, as much as the idea gave her a strange stirring between her legs. She prodded subtly, here and there, trying to prompt people to divulge details of their personal life, filtering through potential targets.

Finally, after her sixth day in a row of visiting the library and sifting through endless debasing descriptions of her body and details of ideas people had for further shaming and humiliating her, she landed on someone who seemed like he fit all of her criteria.

She made another dummy account and messaged him. She very frankly laid out her identity, her need for money, her desire to keep this relationship private and exclusive. His name was Ed. He lived in the UK, he had a wife and kids, who obviously did not know of his fandom here. He made enough money. Send me enough money to let me survive, and I'll speak with you exclusively, something no one else on these forums has. I will produce whatever photos or videos you want.

At first he didn't believe her, of course. She wrote her name and the exact time and date and held it up next to her face and took pictures with the laptop's webcam. She wrote various messages demanded by him, distorted the paper this way and that to ensure him they were not photoshopped on. Finally he was convinced. He was talking to the real Melody, the girl across the world who was so infamous, who he had had so many huge, guilt-ridden orgasms to. Wanting to develop some kind of private relationship, pragmatic and removed as it was, with him.

It was almost comical how quickly his tone became friendly and supportive when he knew he was speaking directly to her, as opposed to the comments he had left in various threads describing all manner of awful opinions and wishes for her.

Ed quickly used Western Union to get some initial cash to her. Not a ton, but enough for her to get a burner phone, and a hotel room for a few days. More would come later. She moved out of the women's shelter to a Motel 6, and over the coming days performed every personalized request he had. Luckily, he was bad at being a dom. He was too unsure of himself, too scared of overshooting. He had her write his screen name on her nude body, had her contort herself into various mildly degrading positions and send the pictures to him. Her big toe in her mouth, her asshole circled in sharpie and spread. Nothing 1/100th as bad as what was already out there of her. She took the pictures with full awareness that he would surely share them all once their relationship was severed, but she didn't care. With every picture, he would send her $5.

After a few days he finally made bigger offers. Offer yourself to strangers off the street, take them back to your room and fuck them bareback. Let them creampie you or cum on your face and send me the picture proof. Send me video clips of each one fucking you. For every man you fuck I will give you $100.

She had been expecting something like this eventually, and knew it was her best option. It wasn't that bad, really. Her vagina had handled hundreds of different men over the course of a weekend more than once. What were a few more?

So she started bringing men back to her hotel room. It wasn't hard, of course. She'd walk to one of the nearby bars toward closing time, find a guy by himself, tell him he was cute, and ask if he wanted to go back to her place. It didn't fail a single time. Three guys in the first three nights. All three fucked her and came in her pussy with no condom, without hesitation. They seemed slightly more confused by her request for them to take pictures and videos on her phone of them fucking her, or of their cum leaking out of her afterward, but they still didn't question it. She agreed to each of their requests to send the pictures back to their own phone number. She must be a real kinky bitch -- fair enough.

Ed praised her exploits. He began venturing into more risque language with her. Feels good to have new cocks in you again, doesn't it, slut? She would placate him. After a week with a new cock a day, he began to up the ante. Tell them you have to have a fist in you or you can't get off. I'll give you $200 per when they fist you. Tell them up front, when you're still in the bar. I'm a whore who needs a man's fist in my puppet-pussy right now. Say it in front of their friends. Tell them dick can't get you off anymore. Wear the sluttiest outfit you can buy. When they're done with you, tell them your full name and tell them to look you up online.

She obliged. She wasn't happy to, but how much worse would it make her life? Men 1,052 through 1,067 occurred this way. Each one hurt. Each one thrilled her. The pure look of excitement mixed with revulsion on each man's face as her labia closed around his fist humiliated and electrified her. She was surprised it could still affect her. She was humiliated by how easily her pussy could be fisted now. Each one took plenty of pictures of her. Most they saved for their own use, or sent to their friends, but they also sent what she requested to her.

It slowly reinforced her uselessness to her. Beyond this, what was there? For a month he kept it up. It carried her until man 1,078. His demands kept escalating, and she finally quit. It gave her enough money to move on. 26 random bar pickups putting their fist in her pussy, 26 men who nearly blew their load from the sheer depravity of what they were doing. It wasn't something a normal person experienced in their life. Well, you're welcome.

She cut it off with him. She'd accrued enough of his money.

She knew she'd have to move on quickly. It would probably be a matter of hours before he posted all those pictures he'd collected, before he posted her new location.

She took a Greyhound to Phoenix. She had enough money to get an apartment. Month to month rent. She found a job waiting tables at a local place, all payment under the table -- no ID required. It felt almost useless. She'd go back to her empty apartment at night and wonder why she bothered. Was she going to live a life of running, constantly starting over?

She was afraid to try to make friends. She'd make the mistake of trusting new people before. It would just make it worse when they found out about her.

On the 12th day at her new job someone recognized her. The thing she'd been dreading. It was a young guy -- a fat, ugly, loner type. When he first came in he looked at her weirdly, but didn't say anything. She thought she noticed him sneaking pictures of her on his phone. She tried to ignore him, feeling incredibly uncomfortable, hoping it was nothing. Finally he left, and she started to breathe a little easier.

Less than an hour later he was back. She didn't notice him until he was right up to her.

"Hi Melody," he said, "Big fan. Will you sign this for me?"

Hot flashes of anxiety flared all over her body. He was holding out a glossy 8x10 photo to her. It was a picture of her, on her knees, staring up at the camera, her face completely coated in the cum of dozens of men. Covering her eyes, her hair, every inch of her skin. It almost wasn't recognizable as her, but she knew it was of course. He was holding two other photos. Her enormously gaped pussy in one, both cervix and face visible at once. The other was a deep look into her asshole. He was holding them out with a marker.

She just looked at the pictures, unable to form words. Her mouth hung open and she just stuttered. Some of her coworkers were looking over at them. The guy just leered at her with a terrible grin.

"Please put them away," she finally managed to whisper.

He just smiled bigger.

"Then fuck me," he said.

She looked around. "Right this way sir," she said, loudly, "I'll show you."

She quickly led him back toward the bathroom. There was a family bathroom you could lock. In the back. No one was around. She quickly went in with him.

"Please just hurry," she told him.

She was wearing a skirt. She hiked it up, and pulled down her panties and stepped out of them. He had his grubby cock out and was stroking it while spreading her asscheeks with his other hand, poking her asshole. She tried not to look at him. He had terrible acne, and smelled bad.

He mounted her from behind, bareback. She felt his cockhead rubbing around her groin, trying to find her hole. She was barely even wet, but he managed to get in quite easily once he had figured out how to angle his cock correctly. He groaned loudly when he felt himself go all the way inside her.